The chair lifted just a fraction, till it hovered clear of the catwalk. Ross' eyes distended. Nostrils flaring, he broke into a headlong run. But the catwalk vibrated under the impact of his weight. As if by reflex, his quarry's shoulders stiffened. The fingers on the control-arm spun a dial. The seat whipped round like a pointer on a pivot. For an instant, then, the eyes of the two men met. Mawson expelled a sudden breath. His lips peeled back in a death's-head grin. His free hand whipped up the paragun. Eight feet, possibly, separated the two of them now. Not even breaking stride, Ross dived for Mawson. Nimble-fingered, the adjudicator flipped switches. The grav-seat rocked back out of reach like a swing, then forward again in a short arc that smashed the chair's base against Ross' shoulder with numbing force as he sprawled off-balance on the catwalk. Rolling with the blow, Ross went half off the narrow footway. Before he could recover, Mawson spun the seat again. It swished down like a powered sledge. Spasmodically, Ross threw himself clear off the walk, dangling in mid-air, suspended by the fingers of one hand only. Above him, Pike Mawson's face contorted in a leer. The seat ground on the edge of the catwalk, searching for his fingers. Jaws clenched, Ross swung sidewise violently, letting go of the footway with his one hand as he hooked on with the other. It was like hanging from a spit above a literal inferno. Flames roared below him. The draft that swept from the building's entrance up to the open skylight carried heat like a chimney. Again, Mawson tried to grind the grav-seat down on Ross' fingers. Again, Ross swung clear. Mawson cursed aloud, then leaned far forward over the front of the seat and leveled his paragun at Ross' head. Free arm flailing, Ross let go his precarious grip on the catwalk and lunged upward towards Mawson, paragun and grav-seat. His clawing fingers locked around the weapon's barrel. For frantic seconds they hung there thus, struggling for the paragun. Twice, Mawson triggered charges. Both times, they went wide. But now Ross had a grip on seat as well as weapon. With a sudden jerk, he wrenched the gun from the other's hand. It spun away in a long, catapulting arc that ended in the flames below. Like lightning, Mawson thumbed a button set in the grav-seat's control-arm. The chair came down on the catwalk with a crash, then bounced high into the air, almost to the roof. Ross' nails gouged long tracks in the seat's plastox upholstery as his fingers slipped under the shock. * * * * * Mawson spun a dial. The grav-seat whipped round in a tight circle that all but hurled Ross clear across the warehouse by sheer centrifugal force. White to the lips, Ross clutched at Mawson's safety belt.